G767a 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


Ad  Matrem 


By 

Percy  Stickney  Grant 


New  York 

INGALLS  KIMBALL 

MCMV 


Copyright  1905  by 
PERCY  STICK.NEY  GRANT 


Arranged  and  Printed  at 

The  CHELTENHAM  Press 

New  York 


Contents 

Ad  Matrem  7 

The  Last  Gift  13 

A  Lancashire  Lover  14 

Benares  16 

At  Delhi  Gate  1 8 

Compensation  20 

November  22 

Behind  the  Lotus-Flower  23 

Fuji-Yama  24 

Burd  Helen  25 

Two  Roses  26 

The  Lover  27 

Hero  at  Sestos  28 

The  Golden  Cross  29 

Light  Lingers  Long  30 

Shadows  3 1 

The  Musician  32 

A  Call  to  Prayer  33 

A  Tapestry  34 

The  Composer  3^ 

A  Quatrain  36 

An  Italian  Sonnet  Sequence  37 

Sonnets  of  Seasons  45 


Present  Day  Sonnets 

The  Christ  49 

The  Altar-Rail  51 

Our  Looms  52 

Street  Musicians  53 

Cuba  Libre  54 

Sophocles  55 

The  Police  Court  56 

New  Hampshire  57 

Carmargo  58 

The  White  Hearse  59 

Democracy  60 

The  Pacific  61 


Ad   Matrem 
I 

O  Christ,  you  left  not  even  Cynthia. 

The  stars  are  empty  now, 
Their  gods  and  goddesses  are  gone. 
In  leafy  glade,  on  shadowy  hillside  are 
No  longer  nymphs  at  play, 

Thy  sorrow-saddened  brow, 
The  tree  you  died  upon, 
Frightened  those  happy  ones  away. 

Bacchus'  exulting  crew, 

Scorned,  fell  back  from  you ; 
White  Aphrodite  withered  to  wan  foam. 

What  hast  thou  brought  instead  ? 
All  men  could  pour  the  lustral,  pleading  wine 
And  bear  a  gift  to  Hercules'  great  shrine; 

Or  love,  forget  and  rove 

In  Cybele's  dim  grove. 
All  maids  could  follow  where  Adonis  led, 
In  verdant  meadows  plumed  with  iris  roam, 

And  laugh  and  dance  and  sing 

Prinked  out  with  buds  of  Spring. 
Calm  priests  could  slay  a  lowing  hecatomb ; 

Youths  look  with  wistful  eye, 

That  longed  and  might  espy 
A  sweet  form  glide  into  her  fountain  home; 

Or  hear  the  quick-drawn  breathing  of  a  race 

And  turn  to  meet  the  glory  of  Apollo's  face. 

[7] 


AD       MATREM 


II 

What  hast  them  brought  ?    Where  is  the  waving  throng, 
Bright  eyed,  with  loud  hosannas  and  shrill  song 
That  strewed  torn  palms  before  thy  regal  way? 
No  cymbal's  clash  and  smiling  train, 
But  tears  and  moans,  reproach,  disdain, 
Until  the  end  on  Calvary  did  stay. 
Art  thou  our  God  and  archetypal  man? 
As  ages  pass  must  we  forever  scan 

Thy  cross,  thy  drooping  head  and  arms  stretched  wide ; 
Thy  thorns,  thy  nakedness  and  bleeding  side ; 
The  skull-shaped  hill  on  which  you  died  ? 
A  sight  that  blasted  Spring's  blue  heaven  blind, 
Till  midnight  stars,  amazed,  at  noon-day  shined; 
While  earthquakes  disemboweled  pregnant  graves, 
And  holy  things  stood  stark  to  sneering  knaves — 
Is  that  the  best  our  eyes  will  ever  see? 
Must  heaven  be  entered  through  thine  agony  ? 
What  bringest  thou  who  treadest  on  past  joy? 
As  Autumn's  feet  o'er  hill  and  dale 

Trample  the  fallen  fruits,  the  fallen  leaves, 
Dost  lead  a  load  of  yellow  sheaves? 
Or  drivest  thou  the  storm  and  gale 
Of  Winter  desolate  and  pale  ? 
What  givest  thou  for  joys  thy  griefs  destroy? 


[8] 


AD       MATREM 


III 

The  veil  is  rent,  the  shrines  in  silence  rest; 
The  sphinx,  her  envied  secret  in  her  breast 
Around  whose  feet  the  bones  of  wisdom  spread, 
Can  give  no  more  her  riddle,  all  is  said. 
Nature  no  more  her  gilded  net  can  cast, 
For  thou,  O  Christ,  hast  come  to  us  at  last. 
Lo,  with  thee,  love  has  come  unknown  before : 
Not  Aphrodite  with  her  Lesbian  lore 
And  reckless  boy,  blind,  hapless,  insolent; 
But  love  that  gains  through  suffering  content, 
Whose  face  the  awful  gates  of  death  revealed, 
Where  Mary,  mother,  weeping,  wondering  kneeled, 
And  sorrow,  holding  goads  for  memory, 
And  grief,  marred  portress  to  love's  sacristy. 
There  death  was  changed  like  Aaron's  rod 
And  man  bereft  beheld  the  love  of  God. 


[9] 


AD       MATREM 


IV 

All  worships  change,  save  that  a  son  can  give ; 
Though  altars  perish,  motherhood  will  live. 
A  singer  thou,  my  mother,  whose  soul's  song 
Enchants  the  hearts  that  hear. 
No  verse  can  fitly  phrase 
The  rythm  of  thy  days  ; 
Sweet  rhyme  has  not  thy  cheer, 
Euterpe,  dear  to  thee,  is  not  so  strong. 

Daughter  of  Puritans,  like  them  as  stern 
To  champion  right,  to  fight  the  wrong. 

From  thy  high  path  thou  wilt  not  turn, 
But  look  askance  at  tripping  pleasure, 
As  though  her  merry  dance 
Could  turn  thy  heavenly  glance 

From  misery's  full  measure, 
And  thou  forget  thy  errand  of  deliverance ; 
Thou  fleest  her  caress, 
Pleasure  to  thee  is  selfishness. 
Yet  nestling  in  thy  strength  lies  ever, 
Like  a  reflection  in  a  river, 
Sweet  as  arbutus  underneath  the  snow, 
Thy  second  self,  a  queen  in  fairy  show. 
Thou  livest  in  rich  thought, 
That  comes  to  thee  unsought, 

The  unspoiled  splendor  of  a  summer  day. 
The  common  world  for  thee 
Is  hung  in  jubilee ; 

Each  with  his  best  adorns  thy  royal  way. 


[10] 


AD       MATREM 


V 

O  how  can  love  its  vision  realize ! 

For  near  thee  I  would  ever  dwell, 
But  separation,  sin  and  self  arise 
To  hide  thee  from  mine  eyes. 

I  say  "  Farewell," — 
My  heart  foreboding  falters 

To  take  my  leave  of  thee  and  happiness, 
Till  love,  my  life,  its  service  strangely  alters 
And  slays  me  by  its  own  excess. 
But  no  !     I  see  a  larger  plan. 

Sweet  love  need  not  lament  in  barren  days, 
When  hands  touch  not,  nor  fond  eyes  scan 
The  form  it  broods  always 
But  cannot  greet. 
Where  love  exists  all  love  is  in  relation. 

So  in  Christ's  love  and  loving  ministry 
Thou  art  exalted  in  my  exaltation ; 
Soul  touching  soul  I  walk  with  thee 
Alone  along  the  crude  mill-village  street. 
Thou  art  not  absent,  nor  I  desolate, 
When  I  in  this  great  love  participate. 


AD       MATREM 


VI 

Thou  reconcilest  me  to  things  divine 

And  lead  by  love  where  feet  are  loath  to  tread; 
Alluring  as  a  rainbow  draws  a  child, 
Who,  breathless,  runs  to  grasp  it,  but  beguiled 
By  its  attainless  beauty,  still  is  led 

On,  on,  in  ardent  quest  where  heaven  and  earth  entwine. 
Yes  farther  still.     As  far 
As  flames  the  last,  swift  star 

Upon  the  brink  of  being  thou  shalt  lead. 
Jf  those  orbs  cease  to  roll 
And  all  is  void  but  soul, 

In  that  new  world,  my  life  thy  light  will  need. 
Bright  eyes  and  merry  ways  attract  a  boy, 
And  youth  in  these  too  often  seeks  its  joy ; 
But  manhood  looking  nearer 

The  awful  spirit  sees, 
Then,  with  a  vision  clearer 
Mere  flesh  ceases  to  please, 
And  in  the  face 
It  seeks  heaven's  grace. 
Sweet  face,  sweet  mother,  I  can  see 
To-day  the  world's  maturity ; 
The  gods  forlorn, 
The  Lord  Christ  born, 
That  man  might  rise  by  thy  love's  regency. 


THE       LAST       GIFT 


The   Last   Gift 

What  can  he  give  who  has  given  his  all, 

Thrown  his  one  wreath  when  the  curtain  arose? 
Hands,  must  they  lag  when  the  heart  overflows, 

Empty  of  gifts  at  the  curtain's  last  fall? 

What  can  he  give  who  has  given  his  heart, 
Wagered  for  love  all  a  lifetime  can  gain? 
Henceforth  is  all  he  would  offer  in  vain — 

Fruitless  since  all  was  bestowed  at  the  start? 

Gone  is  his  wreath ;  but  he  joins  with  the  rest, 

Gilding  his  laurel  with  loudest  encore. 

Lost  is  his  heart ;  who,  then,  fain  would  give  more, 
Tested,  triumphant,  can  cry,  "Love  is  best." 


AD       MATREM 


A   Lancashire   Lover: 

(At  the  Undertaker's.) 

'Tis  so  sudden  and  strange 

To  me. 
You  are  used  to  the  dead, — 

Used  to  see 

The  closed  eyes,  to  arrange 
The  cold  hands,  the  stiff  head. 

You  can't  feel  as  I  feel ; 

For  you 
Know  the  shrouds  you  will  need 

The  year  through. 
You  buy  land,  and  a  deal 
Of  trade  warrants  the  deed. 

A  week  since  I  saw  her. 

The  night 
Seems  now  distant  as  Noah. 

Ah, — how  bright 
Was  the  kitchen;  like  myrrh 
Smelled  the  fresh-washed  pine  floor. 

She  talked,  laughed,  I  was  dumb, 

Until, 
Shamefaced,  I  showed  the  ring. 

O,  I  still 

See  her  lips  as  her  thumb 
She  slipped  through  the  great  thing. 

[H] 


LANCASHIRE       LOVER 


For  you  see  I  told  clerk 

At  store, 
'Twas  for  me,  was  the  ring. 

Now  I  swore 
It  was  big  as  a  park, 
Said  a  smaller  I'd  bring. 

Then,  next  day,  she  fell  sick. 

A  maid 
With  no  home  of  her  own, 

Though  she  prayed, 
Yet  they  sent  her  off  quick 
To  the  work-house,  alone. 

While  I  laughed  o'er  my  loom, 

And  felt, 
Now  and  then,  for  the  ring 

'Neath  my  belt, 

Wishing  week-end  would  come, 
Little  dreaming  the  sting. 

Planned  the  house  we  should  have, 

We  two ; 
Carpet,  table,  chairs,  stove, 

What  we'd  do  : — 
She  lay  dying,  the  grave 
Was  a-beckoning  my  love. 

Aye,  she  died  more  of  shame  ? 

'Tis  like. 
I'll  complete  here  my  vow. 

I  could  strike  : — 
But  'tis  useless  to  blame ! 
May  she  have  the  ring  now  ? 

['5] 


AD       MATREM 


Benares 

I  pray  for  the  sad  souls  that  pray 
By  Ganges,  the  flower-strewn  river, 

Whose  blue,  gleaming  waves  wash  away 
The  gifts  and  the  sins  of  the  giver. 

As  he  dips  himself  thrice  in  the  flood, 
And  drinks  of  it,  laves  in  it,  splashes, 

Till  his  sins  flow  away  like  the  mud 
Which  scours  the  bowl  that  he  washes. 

Through  the  dark  palace  gates  of  Gwalior 
Throng  pilgrims,  their  souls  heavy  laden ; 

Down,  down  the  vast  steps  to  the  shore, 

Move  the  elders,  slim  youth,  jeweled  maiden. 

While  naked  bronze,  pedestaled  high, 
Some  prone  or  awhirl  make  their  prayer : 

Or  wrapped  in  bright  robes  softly  sigh 
As  at  the  broad  river  they  stare. 

Where  all  things  are  sacred  save  man 
And  woman,  the  meek  burden-bearer; 

Dream-weary  and  starved  is  life's  span 

And  the  tied  shroud  is  burned  with  the  wearer. 

I  pray  that  a  life  may  appear, 

Like  our  own  born  of  man  and  of  woman, 
Revealing  man's  love  for  man  here, 

A  love  most  divine  because  human  : 

[16] 


BENARES 


To  destroy  the  divisions  of  creed, 
To  frame  of  all  people  one  nation, 

To  supply  without  grudging  all  need 
And  give  birth  to  the  God  in  creation. 

I  pray  for  the  sad  souls  that  pray 
To  Ganges  the  thrice  sacred  river, 

Which  springs  from  the  snows  far  away 
And  will  flow  with  forgiveness  forever. 


AD       MATREM 


At   Delhi   Gate 

A  blind  girl  grinding  corn, 
Beside  worn  women  three ; 

Her  head  awhirl,  her  bare  arms  torn, 
She  stared  at  vacancy. 

As  fast  the  stones  went  round 

She  cried  out  bitterly, 
"  Why  kneel  I  here  upon  the  ground, 

Chained  to  this  task  and  ye  ? 

"  I  toil  but  others  eat, 

In  a  world  I  cannot  see. 
I  will  arise  from  this  squat  seat 

And  end  my  misery." 

Then  one  hag,  brown  and  old, 
As  the  wheel  ground  rapidly, 

Toothless,  her  wrinkled  wisdom  told 
The  girl's  dark  agony. 

"  The  blind  with  the  old  must  stay. 

Your  sisters,  child,  are  we. 
Men  mock  us,  turn  their  heads  away 

And  feed  us  grudgingly." 

The  girl  knelt  stiff  with  rage, 

As  hooded  cobra  crests. 
"  I,  sister  to  your  palsied  age ! 

See,  have  I  shriveled  breasts?" 

['8.1 


AT       DELHI       GATE 

The  next  said  :  "  I  have  learned 
This  world  was  made  for  men. 

A  woman's  soul  by  heaven  is  spurned. 
Why  will  you  chatter  then?  " 

The  girl  sank  back.     Her  moan 

Was  like  a  lost  soul's  cry. 
"On  earth  no  lover  have  I  known. 

Is  there  no  love  on  high  ?" 

The  third  spoke,  swift  her  wheel, 
The  smooth  meal  slipping  fast : 

"  Like  you  at  these  hard  stones  I  kneel, 
Like  them  my  youth  is  past. 

"  The  fields  throb  warm  with  sun, 

Cool  waters  fill  the  well, 
The  nibbling  kids  by  their  mothers  run 

And  sweet  the  mangoes  smell. 

"  Like  poor  beasts,  trees,  and  fields, 
We  must  give  something,  too. 

Child,  since  all  life  an  increase  yields, 
Let  God  give  bread  by  you." 

The  blind  girl  grasped  her  wheel. 

"  Smooth  kids  !  sweet  mango-tree  ! 
Great  Lord,  whom  none  can  see  or  feel, 

I'll  live  and  toil  for  thee." 


['9] 


AD       MATREM 


Compensation 

When  gallant  robins  sing 
Through  loosened  sweets  of  Spring, 
As  you  plod  off  to  work, 
Wish  not  to  change  or  shirk 
The  day's  routine,  dear  soul ; 
But  view  the  whole. 

When  moon  and  stars  shine  bright 
Some  night,  some  summer  night, 
And  weary,  you  must  sleep 
And  cannot  vigil  keep, 
Sigh  not,  alas!  dear  soul; 
But  view  the  whole. 

When  music's  choirs  complain 
In  melancholy  strain, — 
"All  beauty  must  decay, 
Let  love  then  seize  the  day." 
Fear  not  such  loss,  dear  soul; 
But  view  the  whole. 

When  pleasure  bands  you  see 
As  you  go  thoughtfully, 
Cast  down  by  sin  and  woe, 
Long  not  their  joy  to  know. 
Love  thine  own  tears,  dear  soul, 
And  view  the  whole. 

[20] 


COMPENSATION 


"What  is  the  whole?"  you  ask, 
"The  face  within  the  mask?" 
That  beauty's  self  you  are, 
When  ruled  by  duty's  star. 
Not  to  enjoy,  but  be,  dear  soul, 
That  is  the  whole. 


AD       MATREM 


November 

I  push  in  my  house-door  wide. 

The  fallen,  sear  leaves  outside, 

Aswirl  in  the  autumn  wind, 

Like  stealthy  souls  that  have  sinned, 

All  shrunken  and  hectic,  dry, 

Outstrip  me  and  hasten  by 

O'er  vestibule,  hall  and  stair, 

They  rattle  and  battle  there  ; 

As  if  to  forsake  the  dead, 

The  swift  coming  cold  the  dread, 

To  flee  from  the  Winter's  storm 

And  fawn  on  the  live,  the  warm, 

In  search  of  the  fire's  glow, 

The  Summer  dead  long  ago. 

But  I — I  must  close  the  door, 

Across  the  bright,  leaf-strewn  floor. 

The  leaves  underneath  my  feet 

Must  wander  again  the  street, 

From  hearth  and  from  heart  swept  away ; 

Or,  I  perish,  too,  as  they. 


BEHIND       THE       LOTUS-FLOWER 


Behind   the   Lotus-Flower 

Behind  the  lotus-flower  the  treasure  lies, 
In  white  and  gold  pagodas  Burma  builds 
To  great  lord  Buddha  of  the  eight-fold  way. 
Not  in  the  dirt  where  alien  soldiers  dig, 
Nor  far  above  where  purest  gold  caps  all ; 
But  in  the  midst  behind  the  sovereign  bloom, 
There  lies  the  treasured  image  of  the  God. 
Then  seek  not,  brother,  for  the  gift  of  gifts, 
Thy  life's  sweet  secret,  solemn  and  so  brief, 
In  things  below,  though  lovely  is  the  earth, 
Nor  in  the  heavens,  though  lofty  is  the  sky; 
For  in  thyself  the  richest  wonder  lies. 


AD       MATREM 


Fuji-Yama 

I  turned,  and  seeing  Fuji,  thought  I  dreamed: — 

A  mountain  in  the  moon,  so  far  and  white, 

So  white  and  still,  slow  motioned  towards  the  sky, 

So  strong  on  earth,  so  merged  with  all  above. 

No  ragged  strife  of  summit  cut  the  heavens, 

No  agony  of  struggle  petrified, 

Nor  humble  head  bowed  by  the  glacier's  hand. 

Why  vex  with  thought,  when  Fuji  sits  serene? 
Why  fret  and  fume,  when  his  white  head  is  cold  ? 
Why  fear,  when  he  so  near  to  heaven,  is  calm  ? 


BURD       HELEN 


Burd    Helen 

Wan  maid,  what  is  your  woe  ? 
Beside  his  horse  you  go 

Awearily. 

Clasp  her,  O  cruel  knight, 
Upon  your  steed  so  white  ; 

Speak  cheerily. 

O'er  bare,  sad  moors  you  roam, 
Girl  page.     Where  is  your  home, 

Your  kith  and  kin  ? 
Now  at  the  water's  edge, 
Alas,  he  gives  no  pledge. 

Black  death  and  sin! 

Wan  maid,  what  is  your  woe  ? 
Torn  feet,  dazed  brain?     "Ah,  no! 

Alack-a-day ! 
I  love  and  am  disdained, 
I  follow,  for  I'm  chained. 

Ah,  well-a-way!" 

"The  pangs  that  pierce  my  side 
Would  stay,  though  I  did  ride 

The  livelong  day. 
Death  stares  if  I  turn  back, 
Death  lurks  along  my  track, 

In  love's  dark  way." 


05] 


AD       MATREM 


Two  Roses 

Were  you  to  blame, 

Child  Love, 
That  as  they  came 
So  merrily  across  the  fields, 

A  wild-rose-laden  limb, 
Teased  her  to  pluck  the  flower  it  yields 

For  him  ? 

Did  you  then  pull, 

Boy  Love, 
Your  small  hand  full 
Of  petals,  dropping  one  by  one 

O'er  your  palm's  crumpled  rim, 
Until  you  left  the  husk  alone 

For  him? 

What  a  prank  you  played, 

Fie  Love! 
Another  maid 
Laughed  out,  "Wilt  thou  my  sweet  bud  have?" 

And,  then,  was  it  your  whim? 
Plucked  out  the  stem  the  first  girl  gave 

To  him. 


[z6] 


THE       LOVER 


The   Lover 

I  love  her  body  and  her  soul, 

But  I  must  choose. 
Ah  me!  her  heart,  it  is  so  kind, 
So  sweet  her  body,  pure  her  mind, 

I  would  not  lose 
A  petal  of  the  perfect  whole. 

Her  gentle  spirit  wounds  her  flesh, 

She  feeleth  woe 

So  keenly.     Sorrow,  pain  and  sin 
Gaze  at  her  all  bright  within 

And  grieve  her  so, 
Tears  mar  the  body's  golden  mesh. 

Her  face  is  fair  as  temple  gates. 

I  linger  there 

And  look  and  love,  then  reverently 
Pass  in,  the  fairer  soul  to  see; 

Nor  may  compare 
The  door  to  what  within  awaits. 

For  there  are  angel  choirs  heard 

And  heaven's  appeal. 
There  jeweled  windows,  mystic  sight, 
Reveal  their  beauty  and  the  light; 

So  there  I  kneel 
Me  down  and — worship — is  the  word. 


AD       MATREM 


Hero  at  Sestos 

Will  he  not  come  to-night? 

Moon  and  ye  stars,  shine  bright, 

Tell  him  to  come  to-night. 

For  my  heart  yearns  for  him, 

And  my  brow  burns  for  him; 

His  voice  will  rule  it, 

His  kiss  will  cool  it. 

How  can  his  heart  be  cold 

When  mine  is  uncontrolled? 

Or  his  glance  not  reply 

To  the  love  in  mine  eye? 

O,  if  such  things  can  be, 

End,  heart,  thy  misery. 

If  he  though  far  away, 

Voices  did  not  obey, 

Voices  of  sense  that  tell 

What  my  heart  cannot  quell — 

Its  longing,  its  yearning — 

Did  he  not  turning 

Come  to  me  never  so  far, — 

Then,  cloud  ye,  moon  and  star; 

Let  him  not  come  to-night, 

E'en  though  my  heart  might — 

Hark,  heart!  Whose  step  is  this? 

Foolish  heart,  why  doubt  thy  bliss? 

Doubting  lips  may  kiss — may  kiss. 


[28] 


THE       GOLDEN       CROSS 


The   Golden   Cross 

A  golden  cross,  lifted  so  high, 
Above  the  noisy  thoroughfare, 

That  rarely  did  a  wandering  eye 
Discover  that  a  cross  was  there. 

But  wreathed  around  it  prayers  arise, 
And  heavenward  human  songs  ascend, 

While  motionless  against  the  skies, 
Its  silent,  golden  arms  extend. 

Upon  it  morning  sunbeams  flash, 

About  the  dark  form  star-gleams  play, 

And  wind  and  rain  against  it  dash, 
Yet  there  it  stands  unmoved  alway. 


09] 


AD       MATREM 


Light   Lingers   Long 

Light  lingers  long  as  Winter  wears  to  Spring, 
And  O  my  heart  can  hear  those  choirs  sing, 
That  break  the  brief  spell  of  a  Summer's  night 
And  herald  days  that  swoon  at  noon  of  light. 
Now,  though  around  my  door  cold  March  winds  throng, 
Light  lingers  long. 

I  wake  and  laugh  to  see  the  yellow  sun 
An  hour  when  winter  nights  had  long  to  run  : 
And  when  I  see  where  once  I  played  the  mole, 
As  hours  of  insight  lengthen  in  my  soul, 
I  will  not  chide  a  world  of  pain  and  wrong, — 
Light  lingers  long. 


[30] 


SHADOWS 


Shad 


ows 


If  ali  the  year  were  June, 

With  tangled  roses  and  the  bumble-bee, 

In  honeysuckle  murmuring  happily, 
In  lilies  deep  asleep  at  noon; 

While  sweet  birds  fill  the  sky, 

How  could  I  die? 

If  all  the  year  were  night, 

A  tempest  past,  the  pure  moon  shining  clear, 

When  all  the  glowing  stars  in  heaven  seem  near 
The  slumbering  earth  wrapped  in  still  light ; 

When  pain  is  hushed  in  sleep, 

How  could  I  weep? 


AD       MATREM 


The   Musician 

There  was  a  good  musician, 

Who  loved  a  lady  fair, 
And  like  a  great  magician 

Could  charm  her  every  care. 

He  deeply  loved  the  lady, 

And  when  death  closed  her  eyes, 
For  months  no  music  played  he, 

But  gazed  into  the  skies. 

At  last  his  sombre  spirit 

Awoke  and  talked  with  her's  : 

He  plays  and  she  can  hear  it. 
Ah !  how  his  music  stirs  ! 


CALL       TO       PRAYER 


A   Call   to   Prayer 

From  the  minaret  the  Moslem 
Bids  men  pray.     "  Let  all  work  wait." 

North,  south,  east  and  west  he  calls  them, 
"  God  is  one  and  God  is  great." 

Far  below  a  woman  blesses 

God  in  new-found  motherhood, 

Singing  to  the  babe  she  presses, 
"  God  is  love  and  God  is  good." 


[33] 


AD       MATREM 


A   Tapestry 

Love  met  Medusa  on  the  Libyan  plains, 

Whose  serpent  locks  dart  death  at  them  that  see. 

"Ah  boy,"  she  cried,  "the  cause  of  all  my  pains, 
At  last  sweet  vengeance  I  can  wreak  on  thee." 

Love  looked  nor  faltered  at  her  horrid  gaze. 

She  tore  her  hissing  hair  to  strike  him  dead ; 
But  where  her  wild  blows  fell,  to  her  amaze, 

Red  roses  burst  in  bloom.      Love  laughing  fled. 


[34] 


THE       COMPOSER 


The  Composer 

He  heard  a  music  that  he  could  not  snatch 
From  moods'  and  muses'  fitful  higher  flight. 

He  wrote  the  lower  strains  his  ears  could  catch; 
But  in  despair,  his  name  he  would  not  write. 

He  died.  His  sweet  unfathered  songs  survived, 
True,  human  voices  of  the  life  that  is. 

Men  praised:  but  only  knew  the  name  contrived 
To  hide  a  grave's  immortal  melodies. 


[35] 


AD       MATREM 


A   Quatrain 

Who  sees  Apollo  feels  himself  divine. 

Although  his  life  a  lowly  course  must  run, 
Yet  in  his  heart  he  foots  it  with  the  sun, 

And  circles  where  immortal  hours  shine. 


[36] 


AN     ITALIAN     SONNET     SEQUENCE 


An  Italian  Sonnet  Sequence 
I 

Take  not  your  fingers  from  the  ivory  keys, 
But  let  them  linger,  straying  here  and  there ; 
Or  let  them  sink  melodiously  where 

Lie  fair,  locked  pearls  in  music's  sobbing  seas. 

We  look  and  smile,  artless  of  what  doth  please 
Us,  for  our  lips  are  dumb,  sealed  with  despair 
To  say  the  happiness  our  mute  hearts  bear 

And  cannot  tell  except  in  strains  like  these. 

Then  go  not.     Hold  that  last  note  ere  it  flee. 
Weave  thy  sweet  themes  anew,  until  they  wind 
A  golden  maze  of  dreams  and  harmony. 

One  wayward  note  adventurous  way  may  find 
Where  timid  love  in  silence  sits  enshrined, 
And  break  his  lips  to  song  in  sympathy. 


[37] 


AD       MATREM 


II 

The  Alchemist  long  since  left  his  dark  cell, 

The  cold,  white  ashes  ceased  like  gold  to  glow. 

What  are  these  magic  arts  that  you  now  show, 
Transmuting  life  by  a  mysterious  spell? 
The  rose  I  gave  like  any  rose  did  smell. 

What  primal  breathings  through  your  red  lips  flow? 

For  had  you  dropped  the  flower  you  kissed,  I  know 
A  soul  had  sunk  and  pined  in  bitter  hell. 
O  since  the  time  you  took  my  rose  of  earth 

And  all  day  long  the  heeded  bud  you  wore, 

No  rose  a  rose  alone  will  bloom  for  me. 
For  now  I  know  the  secret  of  soul  birth, 

How  earthly  dust  may  have  a  deathless  core, 
All  life  turn  soul,  burned  by  love's  alchemy. 


[38] 


AN     ITALIAN     SONNET     SEQUENCE 


III 

Deep  inundation  floods  my  pleasant  plain, 

Blotting  the  ordered  fields  from  hill  to  hill ; 

The  green  heights  lie  like  emeralds  fall'n  at  will, 
The  curved  links  broken  that  once  bound  the  chain. 
Now  foul,  black  clouds  my  sunny  heaven  stain, 

With  here  and  there  a  rift  the  blue  depths  fill. 

What  areas  of  darkness,  cold  and  still, 
Lie,  trackless,  'twixt  the  bright  stars  of  the  Wain! 
A  barren  desolation  drowns  my  days: 

Mere  scattered  peaks  of  time  I  now  behold 

Which  mischief  Love  has  named — Rare  sights  of  thee. 
Since,  then,  my  life  so  little  land  displays, 

Appear,  I  pray,  as  Thetis  might  of  old, 

And  stay  this  swift  encroachment  of  the  sea. 


[39] 


AD       MATREM 


IV 

As  a  dark  heathen,  lord  of  captive  knights, 

Scowls  jealous-eyed  fretting  lest  they  break  free 
And  wreaks  his  hate  in  constant  cruelty, 
But  spares  their  lives  that  ransom  rich  requites  : 
And  when  day's  woes  are  drowned  in  starry  nights 
And  their  swart  captor  sleepeth  stupidly, 
Those  knights,  chain  harnessed,  wake  to  liberty 
And  tell  strange  tales  till  dawn  their  prison  lights : 
So  tyrant  mind  permits  of  thee  no  thought, 

Would  famish  heart,  would  yield  no  time  for  love, 

But  teach  me  every  hour  the  world's  rough^might. 
At  last  when  sleep  steals  reason's  keys,  gold-wrought, 
And  locks  him  safe,  in  dreams  of  thee  I  rove 
In  endless  revel  through  the  fairy  night. 


[40] 


AN     ITALIAN     SONNET     SEQUENCE 


Not  for  my  skilless  hand  that  fond  deceit 

He  knew,  whose  pious  heart  kindled  to  paint 
On  high  cathedral  walls  a  deathless  saint, 

And  for  her  face  and  form  find  beauty  meet. 

Ah,  what  face  can  his  brush,  bewitched,  repeat, 
Save  her's  for  whom  his  temples  throb  and  faint? 
So  kneeling  ages  make  their  holy  plaint 

In  lowly  worship  at  his  mistress'  feet. 

No,  my  poor  love  must  run  an  earthly  pace, 
Nor  borrow  adoration  from  a  shrine 

To  light  thy  steps  down  an  immortal  way. 

Yet  listen,  for  my  bosom  holds  thy  face  ! 
It  would  be  holy  for  such  love  as  thine, 

And  deathless  are  the  hues  its  walls  display. 


AD       MATREM 


VI 

What  classic  form  can  hold  the  restless  song 
That  day  and  night  the  world  is  chiming  me, 
Rending  my  heart  with  its  discordancy  ? 
"Pain,  pain  is  right;  joy,  joy,  ah!  joy  is  wrong." 
Now  on  these  April  lawns  the  robins  throng 
And  sing,  "  O  happy  love,  O  ecstasy." 
A  voice  beside  me  mutters,  "  Charity." 
"Yes,"  cowering  wretch,  "to  one  God  we  belong." 
"  Love,  love,  O  love,"  all  sunny  places  sing. 
"  Nay,  suffer,  suffer,"  cries  each  human  sight, 

"Thy  garland  be  the  crown  thy  Lord  did  wear." 
My  heart  was  faint  at  thought  of  suffering, 

Until  love  whispered :  "  First  be  my  true  knight, 
Or  pain  can  find  no  load  for  you  to  bear."     • 


AN     ITALIAN     SONNET     SEQUENCE 


VII 

Death  the  revealer  cast  his  portals  wide, 

With  torch  held  high  he  peered  without  awhile, 
Then  looked  toward  me  and  with  a  radiant  smile 

He  beckoned  one  who  stood  close  by  my  side. 

My  tears  fell  down  me  like  a  sobbing  tide 
That  mourns  its  ebb  back  from  a  happy  isle. 
With  hands  outstretched  I  paused  at  that  dread  stile; 

But  she  he  motioned  tarried  not  nor  hied. 

I  looked  at  death,  but  saw  life's  quenchless  light ; 
Disease's  havoc  lay  defeated,  an 

Immortal  self,  strong,  loving,  pure  she  showed. 

Then  spread  a  magic  pathway  in  my  sight, 
A  bridge  of  Chinevat,  sin  cannot  span, 

Whereon  she  passed  within  death's  bright  abode. 


[43] 


AD       MATREM 


VIII 

As  one  who  plays  a  lovingly-held  lyre 

Deep  in  the  night,  till  dreams  his  lids  surprise, 
When  his  friend  softly  pillows  him  and  tries 

To  free  the  fingers  from  the  close-clasped  wire 

That,  smitten,  sounds  alarm  to  rouse  its  sire ; 
So  gently  loose  my  love  from  one  that  plies 
Sweet  music  for  my  soul — from  memories, — 

Vain,  backward  yearnings  when  I  ought  aspire. 

Not  as  a  frightened  mother  flings  afar 

A  poisonous  weed  her  little  child  grasped  tight; 
But  as  a  mother  takes  her  daughter's  hands 

That  clasp  a  husband's  neck,  he  pledged  for  war,— 
So  loosen  love  from  that  stern  self  must  fight, 
Aye,  fight  and  conquer  yet  in  distant  lands. 


[44] 


SONNETS       OF       SEASONS 


Sonnets  of  Seasons 

I 

Instead  of  thinking  man  were  I  a  tree, 

When  barren  Winter's  snow-wrapped  slumbers  break 

Upon  a  world  of  verdure,  I'd  awake 
All  blossoms  sweet  for  nestling  bird  or  bee. 
As  petals  fell  young  fruit  would  cover  me, 

Warm-ripening  in  the  sun,  till  Fall  would  shake 

My  shriveled  leaves,  from  heavy  branches  take 
The  ruddy  rounds  and  rock  me  drowsily. 
But  lordly  man  whose  free  intelligence 

Exalts  him  master  of  the  earth,  may  show 

No  flower  in  youth,  no  fruit  as  age  appears. 
God  grant  my  free  mind  prove  its  high  pretense, 

Nor  yield  returns  less  sure  than  those  that  grow 
On  each  gnarled  apple-tree  the  green  earth  bears. 


[45] 


AD       MATREM 


II 

I  stand  outside  a  church  this  summer  day ; 
The  sky  is  blue  above  the  golden  cross, 
Around  me  purple  lilacs  droop  and  toss, 

Among  the  trees  the  birds  sing  blithe  and  gay. 

Through  open  windows  floats  a  solemn  lay, 
A  funeral  hymn  wailing  a  human  loss 
O'er  a  loved  body,  soon  forsaken  dross. 

Hark  !  now  the  organ  ceases.     Hush  !  they  pray. 

O  barren  brightness  of  the  summer  skies ! 

O  singing  birds,  and  warm,  sweet-scented  wind! 
Ye  tell  me  not  to  whom  those  voices  sound. 

Fair  nature,  heaven  enough  to  my  poor  eyes, 
O  bid  me  not  in  thee  my  joy  to  find ! 
No  lasting  peace  is  in  thy  beauty  found. 


[46] 


SONNETS       OF       SEASONS 


III 

I  walk  through  silent  showers  of  golden  leaves. 
As  startled  from  a  dream,  the  bright  fall'n  things 
Leap  up  and  bind  me  in  their  magic  rings, 

Weird,  whirling  circles  as  an  old  witch  weaves. 

High  up  above  the  trees,  a  sea-gull  cleaves 

The  moist,  gray  sky,  now  up,  now  down,  nor  sings 
One  note ; — no  music  Autumn  with  her  brings 

Except  the  wind  that  lulls  while  it  bereaves. 

A  slender  elm  twig,  trembling  with  the  care, 
Supports  an  oriole's  deserted  nest ; 

The  brilliant  bird  flies  now  in  southern  air 

Where  ruffling  cold  no  longer  chills  her  breast. 

So  shall  the  soul  when  frosty  fall  days  come, 

Abandon  earth's  abode  and  seek  a  fairer  home. 


[47] 


AD       MATREM 


IV 

I  would  some  year  my  life  were  like  this  day — 
This  autumn  day,  when  but  a  few  remain 
Before  cold  flakes  descend  upon  the  plain — 

A  revery  with  face  turned  back  to  May. 

The  crops  are  harvested  and  stored  away, 
The  leaves  are  shed;  amid  the  stubble  grain 
The  bonfires  smoke,  like  incense  in  a  fane, 

A  cleansing  rite  the  fertile  furrows  pay. 

Earth's  labor  done,  before  December  snows, 

These  last  warm  days  turn  back  to  merry  Spring 
And  dream  along  the  fragrant  path  they  came. 

Happy  the  life  that  pausing  at  its  close, 
Can  smile  upon  the  past  without  a  sting, 

And  smiling  turn  to  pay  death's  wintry  claim. 


[48] 


PRESENT       DAY       SONNETS 


Present  Day  Sonnets 

The  Christ 
I 

"A  gift  I  have,  a  sore  perplexity, 

That  pains  me  like  a  friend's  farewell  embrace, 

Or  unavailing  grief  o'er  a  dead  face, 
The  gift  of  love  which  Thou  hast  given  me. 
The  hearts  of  men  and  women  I  can  see : 

Their  hopes  and  transports,  bright  with  heavenly  grace, 

Their  sin  and  torture,  twined  with  hell's  grimace ; 
But  I  am  dumb  to  speak  my  ecstasy. 
How  can  I  tell  them  all  the  love  I  bear  ? 

Nay,  would  they  understand  my  words  or  heed, 

What  can  I  do  this  utmost  love  to  show, — 
One  utterance,  one  deed  the  world  can  share  ? 

Like  dripping  breasts  my  heart  with  love  doth  bleed, 
O,  I  would  die  if  all  mankind  might  know. 


[49] 


AD       MATREM 


II 

"  Would  I  could  give  that  naked  man  my  cloak, 
And,  Father,  heal  that  leper's  foul  disease, 
Could  blot  sin  from  each  criminal  heart,  could  ease 

The  laborer's  load,  give  bread  where  starved  men  choke. 

Would  I  could  give  them  peace  that  are  heart-broke 
And  pour  new  wine  upon,  old  losses'  lees. 
At  every  step  the  needy  on  me  seize ; 

My  hands  alone  cannot  lift  every  yoke." 

Then  his  soul  heard :  "  Be  rich  in  life,  not  gifts 
That  pass  like  morning  dews ;  but  give  instead 
A  dower  for  all  ages  and  all  needs. 

Thy  soul  perfect  through  suffering,  till  it  lifts 
The  burden  of  a  self  forever  dead, 

From  all  mankind,  and  new  conditions  breeds." 


[50] 


THE       ALTAR-RAIL 


The  Altar-Rail 

Their  hands  they  hold  across  the  altar-rail, 

From  various  need  reached  toward  a  common  hope. 
In  scraps  of  prayer  and  errant  thought  they  grope 

A  solace  for  their  souls  that  will  not  fail. 

O  piteous  hands !     Poor,  puny  hands  !  too  frail, 
Were  you  outstretched  by  emperor  or  pope, 
To  grasp  the  titan  world,  with  sin  to  cope, — 

Gnarled,  jeweled,  soiled,  thin,  palsied,  pale. 

God  fill  these  hands,  of  you  they  ask  an  alms. 
The  world  has  given,  but  the  hands  still  plead ; 
The  world  has  taken,  you  alone  can  fill. 

O  love  divine,  heap  with  hid  gifts  these  palms. 

O  Christ's  sweet  love,  supply  each  bowed  soul's  need,- 
A  human  clasp  moved  by  a  heavenly  will. 


[5'] 


AD       MATREM 


Our  Looms 

"  Rich  stuffs  our  looms  weave  for  fair  ladies'  wear." 
So  read  the  caption  in  the  daily  press ; 
Then  followed  fabrics  in  which  women  dress, 

Whose  costly  garments  win  a  beggar's  stare. 

Our  looms  weave  ?     No  !  but  men  and  women,  where 
Looms  roar  Niagara-like,  whose  strain  and  stress 
Dull  ears  and  eyes  and  soul, — a  weariness 

Rare  pleasure  cannot  lift  or  night  repair. 

Our  looms  weave?     No  !  but  men  become  machines, 
Which  wages,  dropping  scanty  oil,  supply. 

The  helps  mind  conjured  here  destroy  the  mind ; 

For  flesh  and  soul  are  fed  to  make  sateens, 
While  spindles,  shuttles,  faster,  faster,  fly, 
The  brutish  engine  like  all  tyrants  blind. 


STREET       MUSICIANS 


Street  Musicians 

As  once  a  noisy  car  bore  me  along, 

I  met  a  group  of  street  musicians.     They 

Were  near  me,  but  I  could  not  hear  them  play, — 

I  only  marked  the  influence  of  their  song: 

The  violinist's  eyes  flash  at  the  throng, 

The  harper's  fingers  through  the  dumb  strings  stray. 
I  saw  the  girl's  throat  swell,  as  in  her  lay 

She  found  a  moment  she  would  fain  prolong. 

Thy  saints  their  glorious  viols  strike,  O  Lord, 
I  see  them  stand  and  know  they  sing  to  me ; 
But  life's  confusion  dulls  my  spirit's  ear. 

I  catch,  now  here,  now  there,  some  broken  chord, 
Though  my  ears  strain  towards  heaven's  minstrelsy. 
O  give  me  peace  that  I  the  whole  may  hear! 


[53] 


AD       MATREM 


Cuba  Libre 

America,  hast  thou  forgot  thy  birth, 

Thy  long  reluctant  fight  for  liberty, 

The  starved  and  ragged  ranks  that  wrenched  thee  free, 
Cheered  by  one  nation  prescient  of  thy  worth  ? 
Thine  enemy,  the  captain  state  on  earth, 

Thy  motherland,  hater  of  tyranny, 

Insanely  ruled,  held  fast  her  child  in  fee 
For  profit, — paid  at  last  by  death  and  dearth. 
Free  land,  speak  thou  to  her  crouched  by  thy  coasts 

Who  would  like  thee  be  free.     Yes,  break  the  chain 

A  parent's  proud  decrepitudes  impose. 
Where  women  war  than  smile  on  Spanish  hosts; 

Where  men  despair  and  leave  the  sweetening  cane, 
And  with  their  sickles  hew  their  hated  foes. 


[54] 


SOPHOCLES 


Sophocles 

0  Sophocles,  I  would  know  Greek  forthee 
And  pluck  my  honey  from  the  comb  the  bees 
From  sweet  Hymettus  stored,  where  sunny  seas 

Murmur  the  measures  that  are  joy  to  me. 

1  see  the  gods  reign  in  thy  tragedy: 

They  walk  the  earth  and  whisper  in  the  breeze, 
Thy  world  is  full  of  God  and  suppliant  knees 
And  righteousness  controlling  destiny. 
But  our  sad  times  at  higher  beings  flout; 

We  do  not  snatch  from  heaven  to  feed  the  soul, 

We  cannot  find  a  God  in  anything. 
So  blind  we  do  not  see  our  torch  is  out, 

Our  torch  of  poesy.     The  rich-wrought  bowl 
We  clasp  and  grope  along,  but  cannot  sing. 


[55] 


AD       MATREM 


The  Police  Court 

Are  these  Thy  children,  Lord,  this  criminal  row, 
Who  in  the  crowded  court  their  sentence  wait, 
Straining  to  hear  the  judge  pronounce  their  fate, 

And  laugh  or  scowl  or  deep  indifference  show  ? 

Their  prison  days, — that  fear  is  all  they  know — 
Imprisoned  souls  unheeding  their  fixed  state; 
Poor,  sensual  faces,  weak  and  passionate, 

A  mark  of  Cain,  foredoomed  to  crime  each  brow. 

Ah  no!  Our  crimes  are  not  in  birth's  decree; 
Our  evil  deeds  are  not  the  fruit  full-grown 
Of  seedling  sins  set  out  in  infancy. 

We  are  not  blown  about  as  leaves  are  blown; 
For  our  temptation  tells  us  we  are  free, — 

Thy  children,  God,  when  we  a  choice  are  shown. 


[56] 


NEW       HAMPSHIRE 


New  Hampshire 

The  harvest  of  our  hills  is  not  their  corn, 

Sweet  maple  sap,  or  fragrant  riven  pine. 

These  granite  outcrops  feed  few  sheep  or  kine, 
Unshepherded  the  flocks  by  beasts  are  torn. 
Here  is  no  wealth  by  sudden  effort  born, 

From  field  or  forest,  river,  mill  or  mine ; 

Her  sons  for  cities  or  rich  soil  resign 
Their  brown,  bare  farms,  unyielding  and  forlorn. 
But  where  Chocorua  lifts  its  serrate  peak 

Sharp  into  heaven  above  the  heart-shaped  lake, 
Abundant  crops,  unseen,  clothe  every  knoll. 
Here  city-burdened  lives  their  birthright  seek; 

A  perfumed  peace  with  every  breath  they  take,- 
The  harvest  of  our  hills  is  in  the  soul. 


[57] 


AD       MATREM 


Carmargo 

Carved  marble  face,  enraptured  secret  smile, 
In  the  cool  foyer,  silent  and  alone, 
Outside  the  opera's  passion-laden  zone, 

Unguarded  yet  untouched  by  what  is  vile ; 

Carmargo,  dancer,  mistress  of  each  wile 

That  pleased  a  vicious  court,  was  thy  breast  stone, 
When  arms  of  laughing  youths,  wove  thee  a  throne, 

Scornful  of  pleasure  who  could  kings  beguile? 

Inscrutable,  fertile  in  joy,  benign, 

Compassionate  of  lower  human  need, 

With  lithe,  ecstatic  steps  engendering  life  ; 

Like  nature  pouring  a  seductive  wine, 

Patient  with  sense,  and  folly's  ignorant  greed, 
Knowing  the  soul  is  born  in  sensual  strife. 


[58] 


THE       WHITE       HEARSE 


The   White   Hearse 

Death,  I  have  walked  with  you  through  summer  days, 
Bright  summer  days,  life  leaping  to  its  prime ; 
When  fields  laughed  innocent  of  harvest  time, 

And  you  were  banished  from  sweet  country  ways 

Pelted  with  blossoms; — prone,  yet  strong  to  raise 
Your  head  and,  like  your  fallen  parent,  climb 
To  hellish  rule  in  city  streets.     Whose  crime, 

The  myriad  children  each  fair  Summer  slays? 

Man's  work,  this  is,  not  God's.     Him  we  forget, 
Housing  our  brethren  like  beasts  of  the  soil, 

Of  beauty  stripped,  of  smiles,  of  youth,  of  health. 

The  curse  of  slavery  is  with  us  yet; 

Which  uses  without  love,  accepts  the  toil, 

Discards  the  life,  and  builds  on  blood  its  wealth. 


[59] 


AD       MATREM 


Democracy 

Democracy,  those  men  have  done  thee  wrong, 
That  paint  thee  flaunting,  with  a  brutal  face. 
Not  to  Rome's  proletarian  populace, 

Nor  Paris  mobs  that  round  a  red  flag  throng, 

Nor  London  slums  of  saturate  sin  belong 
Such  names — deluded,  pitiable  race — 
Though  in  their  husky  mutterings  we  can  trace 

God  urging  brotherhood  upon  the  strong. 

Democracy  on  law  and  virtue  stands: 

The  home  it  loves  and  children  at  the  knee; 
Its  bread  it  earns,  its  lips  can  speak  in  prayer. 

Though  greed  and  pride  would  bind  its  giant  hands, 
I  trust  the  conscience  of  humanity, 

See  freedom  widen  in  the  people's  care. 


[60] 


THE       PACIFIC 


The  Pacific 

Fierce  courage  his  and  will  straight  as  a  Rune, 

Who  first  sailed  these  vast  seas  and  did  not  tire. 

Unknown  to  him  his  haven  or  his  hire, 
What  reef,  what  race  might  wreck  him  late  or  soon. 
Clear  skies  above  where  Venus  shone  at  noon, 

Blue  waves  beneath  stained  by  an  Indian  dyer; 

At  night  stars  dripped  from  plunging  spars  like  fire, 
To  wastes  of  water  underneath  the  moon. 
The  unknown  he  explored,  home  years  behind. 

And  what  ahead,  oblivious  wave,  palm  isle  ? 

Or,  farther  still,  old  loves  endeared  tenfold? 
So  sail  my  soul,  a  fairer  heaven  to  find, 

Whom  comfort,  safety  cannot  long  beguile, 

Seek  new  gods  though  you  never  greet  the  old. 


[61] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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